Rich nudged me. ‘He needs the operation. Just do it.’
‘Er – um – yes… of course…’ I muttered at the doctor. ‘I’m – um – married to Scott – er – where do I sign?’
I then looked quickly at Scott who was clinging on to the nearest table, clearly in pain, but trying valiantly not to laugh.
My hand shook as I signed the surgical consent forms, only just remembering at the last minute to put Scott’s surname after Stella instead of Deacon. I looked at it for a moment. It looked pretty good to me.
‘Right, we’ll see you in the morning,’ the doctor said as the nurse whisked the forms away. ‘Don’t be late.’
We all crowded out of Casualty then. I slid my arm round Scott’s skinny waist and he leaned heavily on me.
‘As every bit of that was illegal, you’d better hope,’ Rich chuckled at me as he unlocked the van, ‘that he doesn’t die on the operating table tomorrow. God knows what we’d tell Stephan.’
‘Sod Stephan,’ Mo frowned. ‘How the hell would we ever explain it to Renza?’
Stella’s Diary
March 18th 1969
It was a beautiful, warm sunny Spring morning in Luton. Scott, flanked by two nurses, emerged from his day surgery at around 11.30. Given my still-held belief that people died under anaesthetic, I had never been so pleased to see anyone in my life. He looked totally spaced out, but the sling had gone and instead there was a dressing and a small bandage on his injured arm.
Again, Narnia’s Children had turned out en masse to escort him back to the hospital and again had caused something of a stir in the waiting area.
We hadn’t gone to bed the night before when we went home. As none of us possessed an alarm clock it seemed safer to stay awake in case we missed the – for the band at least – ridiculously early start. We’d spent the night in the lamp-lit sitting room, listening to Luxembourg and drinking coffee and talking about everything under the sun all night to keep awake. Scott didn’t even try. He’d simply slumped against me on the sofa and slept his drug-induced sleep.
I’d shifted his head on to my shoulder and thought about my signature on that consent form. For a few short glorious moments I was his wife… well, almost… and as long as he survived the operation, I’d never regret it, and no one except me and Narnia’s Children would ever know. Would they?
At some point in the early hours, when the conversation was flagging and the house was growing colder, the Luxembourg DJ played Glen Campbell’s latest record, Wichita Lineman…
Wow.
I was transfixed by the words. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I shivered. I had goose-bumps. I wiped away unbidden tears.
Glen Campbell’s lonely lovesick lineman was sharing my deepest heartfelt thoughts and emotions.
He needed his woman more than wanting her, and he’d want her for all time…
What fabulous, evocative, heart-rending, oh-so-true words. And ones I’d never, ever forget – or where I’d first heard them.
I’d looked at Scott, sleeping, and prayed he’d never know exactly how I felt about him.
We left Luton hospital in buoyant mood. Scott, still floating from the anaesthetic, and I sat in the front of the van beside Rich.
‘Wish I had some of what he’s had,’ Zak said enviously. ‘He’s so far out of it.’
‘Lucky bugger,’ Joss grinned. ‘I’m knackered and starving.’
We drove away from the hospital and I was just so relieved that Scott had survived that I didn’t worry too much about the deal I’d done with God. Nor that in a couple of weeks this would all be over and I’d be back at work. I’d think about all that later.
‘Is there a Trustees Savings Bank anywhere round here, do you know?’ I leaned across to Rich.
‘Not a clue,’ Rich shrugged, ‘but I’ll trawl round and we can look. Why?’
‘Because I’ve got my bank book, I’m still getting paid from work, and if you can find a café, I think we should go and get something to eat to celebrate.’
They all perked up then and we found the bank quite quickly and then decamped to a small backstreet café where Rich – who seemed to always know exactly where to get food – said they did great fry-ups, for a late breakfast.
Scott was still far too drowsy to move, so I stayed in the van with him, and Mo brought us out bacon sandwiches and big mugs of tea. Scott couldn’t eat much but he drank both mugs of tea thirstily. We had our picnic with the sun streaming through the windscreen, watching billowing white clouds chase across the blue sky. It was glorious. Almost like summer.
I wasn’t looking forward to summer one little bit.
Scott smiled his lovely sexy sleepy smile. His voice was still a bit slurred but his eyes had lost most of the glazed look. ‘Stella… thank you.’
‘For lying? For forging information on an official document? For risking your life?’
‘Well, now you come to mention it…’
‘I was more scared than I’ve ever been in my life. If you’d died…’
‘But I didn’t. I was pretty scared myself. And anyway, we’ll be able to compare scars now.’
I giggled. ‘How many stiches did you have?’
‘Three or four, I think.’
‘No contest then! I’ll win hands down.’
He laughed. Then closed his eyes. ‘God, I’m so tired.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Before you go to sleep… At my last outpatients appointment, they told me I’m fully recovered now and I’ve got to go back to work at the beginning of April.’
He opened his eyes and looked at me, smiling. ‘That’s great.’
‘No it isn’t!’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘But it’s really cool that you’re better. And,’ he looked at me with those gorgeous drowsy turquoise eyes, ‘we won’t be here after the end of March either. We’ve got a month in Germany – clubs in Frankfurt and Kaiserslautern – and then, well…. who knows?’
I turned my head away, my heart sinking. A month in Germany… with Renza. Of course…
Scott stretched his legs out. ‘We’ll work something out. Promise. Don’t look so sad.’
But I wasn’t just sad. I was desolate. Devastated. I knew it would have to come to an end sometime – but I wasn’t ready for it. Not yet. Not ever.
Stella’s Diary
March 21st 1969 – afternoon
Scott’s arm was better, the wound was covered with a plaster, and he could play the guitar again! Which was just as well as they had a big London gig tonight.
We hadn’t mentioned the end-of-March parting of the ways thing again. I knew there was no point. He’d be in Germany with Renza, as he should be, it was going to be over for us, and there was no way on earth I was going to spoil the last days we had together.
Earlier, Scott and I had been in the front room – amongst all the speakers and cases and instruments – and listened to Simon and Garfunkel’s Bookends L.P. I stood looking out of the window, and when ‘America’ came on, he stood behind me and slid his arms round my waist.
‘This track always reminds me of us,’ he whispered into my hair. ‘You know, when we were on the bus, making up mad stories about the other passengers… I’ll always think of you when I hear it.’
I leaned back against him, knowing I’d always remember it too, long, long after we were no longer together, and tried not to cry.
‘It’s a great story song,’ I said, hoping my voice wasn’t wobbling. ‘It really paints a picture. And America always looks so glamourous and exciting in the films. I’d love to go there – but as I’ve never been out of England yet, I doubt if that’ll ever happen.’
Scott kissed my neck. ‘I’d love to go there too. One day. It’s a big dream of mine. But who knows what will happen in the future? Where we’ll go? What we’ll do?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Mmm – who knows…’
Now Narnia’s Children were practising in the front room so
I decided to walk into Leighton Buzzard and buy some food to help stock Mo’s larder. I left a note for Scott to tell him where I’d gone, pulled on my ancient faded Levis that I’d lived in during A level year and had worn to second-skin-softness, and a lemon angora sweater and the white boots. Out for the first time this year without a coat – I laughed to myself – I was sounding like my Nan!
The afternoon weather was still lovely – perfect spring – warm and gentle – and as I walked down the hill away from the house I could hear the group belting out their rendition of The Hollies’s latest ‘Sorry Suzanne’ . It sounded amazing – exactly like the real thing… I could hear Zak and Scott singing the chorus together and their harmonies were pitch-perfect. I smiled to myself, proud to be part of it – they were so very talented. And soon they’d have a record out and everything.
And it would be over…
‘Stella!’ Rich caught me up as I reached the end of the road.
‘Don’t go too far! We’re leaving in about an hour as soon as they’ve got a few numbers sorted and I can get the stuff in the van.’
‘Leave the front door key and I’ll let myself in, then.’
‘You’re coming with us.’
‘What? But I never go to the London gigs.’
‘Scott wants you to come to this one. It’s our first booking there – and could lead to more. It’s at the Café des Artistes in the Fulham Road – where all the beautiful people, not to mention producers and agents, hang-out – and Stephan has booked us as support to The Equals tonight.’
Wowee! Big time! I loved The Equals! I wondered if I could manage to interview them.
‘So get a move on – Scott wants you to be there. He says you’ll enjoy it.’
Wow! I looked at him, wide-eyed. ‘Really? Fab – but what about the rest of you? Don’t you get fed up with me always being around? Always tagging along?’
Rich shook his head. ‘We’re kind of used to you being around now. You’re like part of the gang. No – I know it’s not right, and we all love Renza, and this is a bloody mess – but, hell – we kinda like you.’
I hugged him. ‘Thank you. Rich – why haven’t you got a girlfriend? You’re so lovely.’
‘Oh, I’ve got a steady girl back home. Like Mo. Only mine’s in London, not Jersey. Julie. She’s a nurse. One day we’ll settle down – but this is no life for her.’
I hugged him again. I was glad for him. Zak and Joss made the most of the groupies, Mo and Rich had steady girlfriends, and Scott…
I decided not to think about that.
Rich wriggled free. ‘How long will it take you to get ready?’
‘Ages,’ I grinned happily. Wow! A posh London nightclub gig! With The Equals! ‘Mo’s larder will have to stay empty. Race you back to the house.’
Stella’s Diary
March 21st 1969 – evening
I was entranced by night-time London: all the lights dancing in the darkness, and the buzz of the traffic, and shops and restaurants open for business, and crowds of people walking about as if it was the middle of the day.
It was a million light-years away from Harbury Green.
Rich manoeuvred the transit van along the busy Fulham Road and I almost jigged up and down with excitement. As usual, I was sitting on Scott’s lap, with his guitar case under my feet, and as usual the radio was blaring and everyone was singing along.
‘Here we are,’ Rich said, pulling up outside some railings. ‘I’ll just go down and tell them we’re here… it looks like we’ll be humping the gear down a lot of steps – trust Stephan not to mention it was a bloody basement club… you lot had better start unloading the van.’
He disappeared down some winding, dimly-lit stone steps. Mo opened the van’s back doors, and cursing, Zak and Joss climbed over us and started dragging out the equipment. I slid off Scott’s lap, and he pulled his guitar case out from under my feet.
I grinned at him. He was wearing my fun fur coat over his skin-tight black flares and a black skinny jumper that hardly covered his rib cage. He’d also borrowed my pale blue boots and my black floppy hippy Hendrix hat. With his shoulder length black hair he looked every inch the rock god.
‘You look very cool, and very sexy,’ I smiled. ‘The girls are going to love you tonight.’
‘They always do,’ Zak laughed, appearing at the side of the van and hefting various bits of microphone stand and part of an amplifier. ‘But not as much as they love me. Haven’t you noticed? Right – Rich is waving to us so I guess they’re ready… Shift yourself, Scott. Give us a hand here. And no excuses about having stitches in your arm. Stella, you can grab his guitar and Joss’s. We’ll be back in a bit.’
I watched them go, organised as ever by Mo and Rich, disappearing down the steps to set up the gear on stage.
Tonight, because it was a London club and obviously pretty special, I’d made a real effort with everything, especially my clothes. I always used the same Style pattern for my homemade dresses: top-of-the-thigh-high, low-cut, straight down, with a band of contrasting satin or ribbon under the bustline. The only variations were the sleeves. Some I made tight-fitting, some ballooned into long cuffs, some were leg-o-mutton, and others, like tonight’s, were long, wide and flowing – using more material than the frock.
My dress tonight was white, the band under the bust was pink rosebuds on a paler-pink velvet ribbon and the sleeves were lined with the same pattern. I’d added the pink boots, my eye-sequins were pearly pink above two pairs of false eyelashes, and as well as a swooshing scented cocktail of Sunsilk, Body Mist and Picot’s Le Train Bleu, I’d sprinkled some pink glitter powder in my hair.
Scott had been very complimentary.
Narnia’s Children reappeared en-masse to take the next lot of equipment.
‘It’s really cool in there,’ Scott grinned. ‘Mind-blowing.
Like a cavern with cloisters and little caves snaking off all over the place with stone tables and benches – and the DJ plays records from a sort of glass-fronted cave half way up the wall – and there’s a bar and an eating area too.’
‘Wow… and the stage?’
‘Is at the far end. The club must hold hundreds and hundreds of people – but they’ll all be able to see us. It’s going to be ace. You ok out here?’
‘Fine, thanks. I can’t wait to see it all though.’
‘Patience!’ Mo laughed from behind a stack of cymbals.
‘We’re nearly done. Probably one more trip then we can lock the van. Grab the guitar cases from Stella, Scott…’
I was still sitting in the van and handed him the first case. The radio was still playing: Diana Ross and The Supremes and The Temptations “I’m Gonna Make You Love Me”.
I sang along with Diana, agreeing that I’d try every trick in the book and try to make him love me…
‘You don’t have to try.’ Scott stared at me.
I stared back.
‘There’s no need,’ he smiled gently at me. ‘I love you.’
I think my mouth was open. My heart thundered in my ears.
Eventually I managed to speak.
‘You can’t… you love Renza…’
‘Yes. And you.’
‘You can’t love two people at the same time.’
‘I can and I do.’
‘But….’
‘But nothing.’ He leaned into the van and kissed me. ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen, was it?’
‘No.’
‘But it has. You do love me, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
He smiled. ‘That’s all right then.’
It was far from all right – it was absolutely all wrong – but I honestly didn’t care. It was the happiest moment of my life. I held his face between my hands and kissed him and said the words I’d wanted to say for months. ‘I love you.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Zak yelled, appearing at the top of the club steps. ‘Put him down! Get those guitars, Scott, and let’s do a sound check and then may
be eat something before we go on – although you two look like you’ve already started on each other.’
Laughing, we grabbed the guitar cases, locked the van and walked hand-in-hand down the steep stone stairs. I swear my feet didn’t touch one of them. I was floating. I knew I was grinning like a loon. I wanted to laugh out loud and turn cartwheels. Scott loved me – and I wanted to tell the whole wide world.
Stella’s Diary
March 21st 1969 – later
The Café des Artistes was unbelievable. It was exactly how Scott had described it – and more. But, to be honest, it could have been a tin shed in a deserted rain-soaked field and it would have still seemed the most magical place on earth – because he loved me!
I watched Narnia’s Children set up their gear on the stage, alongside that of The Equals – who were nowhere to be seen, and I guessed they were being wined and dined somewhere as befitted the stars of the show. It was all very exciting.
‘We’re on at 11 for an hour,’ Rich said. ‘Then the Equals from midnight. Then us again at 1 – and then they play their last set at 2. Which means we’re not going to be able to pack our stuff up until at least 3…’
‘And it’ll be daylight before we get home,’ Joss sighed.
‘Which means we can stay in bed all day tomorrow,’ Scott said cheerfully, discarding my fun fur and floppy hat, and winking at me.
‘All right for some,’ Zak grizzled, but he was laughing as he said it.
As the little red candles flickered and danced in multifaceted glass jars on the tables, the DJ in the glass-fronted suspended booth was warming up, playing all sorts of smoochy, classy pop music – Mason Williams, Herb Alpert, Paul Mauriat, Dean Martin… and then the crowds started to arrive.
There was a sudden tidal wave of every beautiful, fashionable person in London – or so it seemed to me. The girls – and the boys – all had long silky hair, gloriously coloured exotic clothes, amazing make-up (boys and girls!), and a mass of flowers and beads and jangling bangles. It was like seeing the fashion pages of Rave and Honey come to life.
I doubted that any of them had made their own clothes on their mum’s ancient Singer sewing machine or had dyed their boots with Lady Esquire. But it didn’t matter – I was happy with my clothes and the way I looked tonight, and more importantly, I was with Scott – and he loved me!
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